


Do-Over

by Fallynleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Gen, Pre-Series, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up naked in a strange bed with no memory as to how he got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do-Over

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by an exchange between Dean and Sam in 2.05 "Simon Says" that I caught upon rewatching the episode. The transcript alone doesn't quite do it justice, but this was the dialogue:
> 
> **SAM:** You know, I heard you before, Dean, when Andy made you tell the truth. You're just as scared of this as I am.  
>  **DEAN:** That was mind control! I mean, it's like, like, that's like being roofied, man, that doesn't count.  
>  **SAM:** What?  
>  **DEAN:** No. I'm, I'm calling do-over.  
>  **SAM:** What are you, seven?  
>  **DEAN:** Doesn't matter. Look, we've just gotta keep doing what we're doing, find that evil son of a bitch and kill it. 
> 
> And then I found myself wondering if Dean had been roofied before. And it only made more and more sense the more I thought about it (especially with regards to Dean's internalized homophobia and his fixation on his own virginity (see: _"I've been re-hymenated"_ in 4.05 "Monster Movie," and also 9.08 "Rock and a Hard Place")), so I thought I'd write a (really depressing) fic about it in order to explore it a bit further.
> 
> My roommate also reminded me that Dean mentions roofies again later in the series, in episode 9.13 "The Purge:"
> 
> **DEAN:** These aren't "supplements", they're roofies.  
>  **SAM:** What? How do you know what roofies look like?  
>  **DEAN:** How do you not know? You think I want to end up in a hotel bathtub with my kidney carved out? In Chechnya?
> 
> I did not take that exchange into account when I wrote this fic, but I figure that it makes sense that Dean would've done some research afterwards in an attempt to prevent what happened here from happening again.
> 
> This fic fits around the canon revealed in 9.07 "Bad Boys," so there are vague spoilers for some of the flashback material in that episode.

The hotel sheets smelled like someone else's cologne. It was a sharp smell, prickling in Dean's nose as he lay on his stomach, face pressed into a rough pillowcase. His eyelids felt crusty and heavy as he blinked, once, twice, trying to clear the muggy haze that clouded his mind. The headache hit him as soon as his vision cleared. Too bright! Dean groaned and shifted onto his side, trying not to focus on the pounding in his temples.

Then he froze. And forced himself to open his eyes again. Because this was not the hotel room he had checked into.

Dean sat up, gritting his teeth as the pain swam before his eyes. But sitting up brought its own pain. It was an internal thing, a soreness that was centralized around Dean's ass, and he was in the middle of wondering if he'd fallen on it wrong while he was fighting whatever it was he'd been fighting when he felt something sticky on his thighs.

Some of it was blood, which god knows Dean had already seen enough of in the sixteen years of his life. But blood wasn't the only thing that had dripped onto his leg.

Dean stared at it, then followed the sticky trail to its source. Then his breath stopped.

Because Dean was almost an adult, and he could put two-and-two together. He was naked in an unfamiliar hotel bed with no memory as to how he got there, with something oozing from his sore asshole. And the hotel sheets smelled like someone else's cologne.

Dean almost made it to the toilet in time. He crouched on the cold tile and his stomach brought up all of the alcohol he'd imbibed the night before, everything he'd drank after he'd snuck into the bar with a fake I.D. and a couple fistfuls of money in his pocket. At least, Dean assumed that was what happened. He had been low on cash and John was nowhere within a hundred miles, so Dean had taken to using hustled money to breed more hustled money, because Sam was growing and was hungry all the time, and Dean wasn't finished growing yet himself.

But besides that, the whole night was gone. Completely missing from his memory, like someone had torn out a few pages and threw them away.

Dean shivered while he rested his cheek on the toilet seat and tried to cry. He knew this would be his last chance to cry before he would have to go back to Sam, but he didn't have the energy.

Someone knocked on the door.

Dean climbed to his feet and grasped the bathroom counter for support while another wave of dizziness coursed through him. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it clumsily around him. Then he walked on shaky feet to the door and opened it.

A woman stood there, clearly a hotel maid. "I apologize, sir, but this room was only booked for one night, and checkout time is in an hour."

Dean stared at her. His mouth felt dry and gross, coated in the taste of vomit. He wanted to ask her who had booked the room with him, what had he looked like, what name had he used? Dean knew he could find the man, could hunt him down and put a bullet into his head, but Dean killed monsters, not humans.

And besides, maybe it was better that he didn't know. Better not to have another face enter his nightmares.

"Sir?" the maid said.

"I'll be out by then," Dean said, finally. He closed the door.

Dean found his clothes on the floor beside the bed. He stared at them for awhile, then reached down and picked them up, wincing a bit at the unexpected soreness that flared up when he bent over. He clutched his clothing tight in his hands and remembered the blood and wondered if something had actually gotten busted inside of him. Maybe he should get it checked out at a hospital. Then it occurred to him that the mess of semen spilling out of his asshole meant the man hadn't used a condom, which meant that he should get checked for diseases, too.

But before that, he needed to shower. And then he needed to get back to Sam, and put on his brave face, and purge the memory that any of this ever happened.

The water ran hotter than Dean was used to, coming down with a nice water pressure. Much better than the crappy motel showerheads that sputtered and leaked and spat frequent bursts of cold water. Dean scrubbed at his body with a plushy washcloth. Over and over, he ran the towel over his skin, working the shampoo into a lather then rinsing it off and applying it again, until the little sample bottle ran empty and Dean's skin was pink and raw. He always chose to use shampoo because so many bar soaps seemed to leave a residue.

When he stepped out of the shower, Dean felt dirtier than he had before. Or maybe he was just realizing that from now on, he would _always_ be dirty. Something had broken inside of him and there would always be a scar that carried the trace of it. Dean slid on his underwear, and then his pants, and layer after layer, he covered up what had happened.

Then he left the hotel room and the building soon after that, and he was on a street that was a couple blocks down from the bar he had probably visited. Dean didn't look at the bar as he walked past. He hoped Sam was doing okay on his own, back at the motel. He didn't know how long he'd been out. How long Sam had been alone.

Dean's fingers shook when he unlocked the door. He stepped into the room with a knot in his throat, waiting for his eyesight to adjust in the dusty darkness cast by the drawn curtains.

"Where were you?" Sam's voice asked, cold and accusatory.

Dean turned and looked at the couch. Sam sat there, curled up with his legs folded and feet against the cushion, the television on with the volume low. "You were gone all night," Sam continued. "You were with a _girl_ , weren't you?"

Dean's throat closed up. The room felt cloistered and smothering. He tried to swallow, and somehow he managed to croak out, "Yeah," and give a weak smile.

"If you came back expecting to eat the rest of the macaroni, it's all gone now," Sam said.

"I'll get some money and more food tonight, Sam," Dean said. "I promise." He walked over to sit in a chair at the little table in the kitchenette, then stopped right next to it and stared down, remembering how it had hurt to sit down before, and not really wanting to feel that again. He took a shaky breath and turned around to lean against the table instead.

"Did you get beat up?" Sam asked.

"What? No." Dean tried to laugh.

"You're limping. You're trying to hide it, but I can still see it," Sam said. "Did you fight something?"

"No."

"Did you‒"

"How about you shut the fuck up, Sam!" Dean snapped, digging his fingers into the cheap wood of the table. "I was gone because I was fucking a girl, and now I'm back, and none of it mattered so we can just forget about it, okay?" His eyes stung, and he angrily forced the tears back.

There was silence. Dean started to breathe a little easier. "What was it like?" Sam asked, quietly. "Fucking a girl? It was your first time, right?"

"It was awesom‒" Dean tried to say. But the words stuck in his mouth, and his voice broke before he finished speaking. He tried again: "It was‒" A sob emerged instead.

"...Dean?"

Dean tried to turn his head so that Sam wouldn't be able to see, then rubbed at the tears in his eyes and put all of his focus into squashing the urge to cry. He needed to get out of the motel room. Needed to go somewhere else and get all of the bad feelings out so that he didn't bring them home to Sam. He started for the door.

"I know something's wrong, Dean," Sam said. "What is it?" Soft footsteps padded towards Dean.

Dean reached for the doorknob, and suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He wrenched away and took a few steps back, but Sam followed him, and soon Dean found himself cornered against the table. "Sam‒" Dean warned. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't stop thinking of someone else's cologne on the pillow, someone else's semen on his leg, and all of his defenses crumbled and his chest heaved a sob, and then he was gone.

Sam didn't say anything. He just stepped up and closed the distance between them.

Dean felt his brother's arms wrap tight around him, and he resisted for maybe a few seconds before he was clutching Sam like Sam was the last good thing on earth.

Dean cried for a long time. He cried until he was physically empty, his tear ducts, his stomach, all of him a gaping hole torn out and wrung dry in front of Sam. Sam just held on tight and refused to let go. He asked no questions, because even at twelve years old, Sam had already learned that Dean answered with lies until the truth was the only thing left, battered and hung up and withheld until the very last.

As Dean let Sam hold him, he wondered if it had been his lips, or maybe his eyes, or maybe just his whole damn face. John called him _girlish_ on occasion, mouth turned up and pressed thin. Maybe the man had thought so, too. But in the end, it was Dean's own fault for not catching someone slip something into his drink, for letting himself get caught off guard. Stupid. Fucking _stupid_. If the man had been a monster, Dean could've gotten eaten, or worse.

If what had happened wasn't already worse. But what would Sammy have done, if Dean had been eaten? Dean would just have to be more careful in the future, that's all. Be less girlish, less stupid, less weak. Less of a piece of prey, and less of a goddamn _victim_.

After a few even breaths, Dean pushed Sam away. He didn't look at Sam, didn't thank him, or smile, or pretend that everything was okay, because then Sam would force him to acknowledge that it wasn't.

"Star Wars is on television right now," Sam said. "The first one. If you want to watch it."

Dean sunk onto the couch with a minimal wince. Sam sat next to him, closer than usual, a warm and wriggly presence at his side. It was impossible for Dean to focus on the movie. His entire body felt like deadweight.

Later, he would stand up and grab his coat and walk out the motel door. He would smile a crooked smile at Sam and assure him that he'd be back later with dinner, their last couple dollars stuffed in his wallet. He'd walk to the bar, then his stomach would seize up and he would be unable to take another step, his feet rooted to the ground outside of the building where just one night before, a hazy outline of a man had led a sixteen year old boy outside, drugged and stupid and _used_. So Dean will turn around and go to find food somewhere else.

After Dean gets arrested, after he meets a man named Sonny, after he kisses a girl for the first time and almost forgets that sex is something dirty and detached, he doesn't see Sam again until weeks and weeks have passed. And after that, the first thing he does is go out and find another girl and close his eyes and pretend like he knows what he's doing, because the other time didn't count. Except for all of the ways in which it was the only one that ever did.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write a bit of a follow-up fic to this one that takes place actually during the series, wherein Sam actually finds out what had happened, but I started writing that follow-up only to lose my momentum with it, so I basically haven't touched it in months. 
> 
> I decided that this fic is plenty complete enough to post as-is. If I do end up finishing that follow-up fic, I'll probably upload it as another chapter to this work, but with my track record concerning my WIPs, it's probably best to not expect that this will ever get continued.


End file.
